One More Sonnet

Tag: People

  • Bedlam’s Gift

    Bedlam’s Gift

    Do you remember the playground, that place
    of inherited rules, rough and tumbled
    into kingdoms with short reign: King, Ace;
    no certainty of claim – empires crumbled?
    Humbled victors became losers. The once
    proud owner of a patch relegated;
    made to start again. A bottom-up dunce
    stripped of position, mocked and berated;
    slated; given no slack; given what comes;
    given the licence to begin again;
    to re-climb; to reclaim status. That’s bedlam’s
    gift, that’s the playground I remember then…
    . No need to keep the playground free of dust.
    . The prissy playground is a breach of trust.

    © Tim Grace, 18 August 2012

    To the reader: The school yard is a swirling patchwork of colours and shapes. The blacktop accommodates the hoops and high bouncing balls; white slashes of squared concrete cater to the criss-cross of tennis balls; and the green-grassed fields squarely frame the arc of foot propelled projectiles. All of this in the context of highly competitive play; skin in the game delivers respect and reputation. In my memory, it was sometimes fun, sometimes fair… very rarely perfect.

    To the poet: A jumble of words. A connected tangle of playful poetics. This sonnet works in three fields that overplay the shape of simple four-line stanzas. Each stanza ends with a rhyme that begins the next; text creating an extra ripple of repetition. Then there’s the enjambement that carelessly bounces over boundaries; a breach of rules; edgy, annoying but fair play.

     

    Bedlam's Gift Bedlam’s Gift
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/ul3cmqXz5vU

     

  • Unknown Space

    Unknown Space

    There’s a lot of unknown space inside my head.
    Grey matter takes account of what I know;
    the rest is mere potential, adjusted,
    ready to absorb my interests, to grow
    in possibility, outstretch belief.
    The nothingness inside my head withholds
    information, sometimes allows a brief
    glimpse at what might be. Just flimsy scaffolds
    that bear no weight; hazy inklings at best.
    Suggestions that do nothing more than hint
    at provisional thoughts, points of interest;
    obscurity with nothing as a splint.
    . Is certainty the child of a loose joint?
    . What becomes of nothing is a moot point.

    © Tim Grace, 11 August 2012

    To the reader: The ‘vast voluminous void’ of unknown space inside my head replicates the expanding universe; endlessly capable of absorbing dark matter. Conversion of this mysterious matter into grey matter (useful knowledge) is no easy task; before I know it I’m confused. In the face of quantum leaps I rely on established models of understanding to span the gaps. With insufficient trajectory I fall short of opposite banks and plummet none the wiser.

    To the poet: In the tradition of paired sonnets, this poem partners the previous. Both reference the potential of empty space as a matter of intrigue. In the first of two, the topic was dark matter; in the second, grey matter came into focus. The emptiness of space as a metaphor for nothingness is the gateway into a look at the relationship between confusion and curiosity.

     

    Unknown Space Unknown Space

     

  • Sad Indictment

    Sad Indictment

    Pall of darkness on road to Damascus;
    It’s a sad indictment of light’s reform.
    The mood is tense and turning fractious;
    What says the message in this rising storm?
    They do not hear its thunder. Are they deaf
    to its rumbling; to its tremulous pound?
    They are so broken of spirit, no clef
    can orchestrate meaning, make sense of sound.
    How loud must the message be amplified
    before these soldiers are stopped in their tracks?
    What lightning, what thunder must coincide
    in their hearts and minds? … meanwhile Kingdom cracks.
    . All roads lead to somewhere, they are the course
    . of discovery; fortune and remorse.

    © Tim Grace, 29 July 2012

    To the reader: Two years on… and the crisis intensifies; a sad indictment of geo-political posturing. As tallied, the numbers describing death and displacement are staggering. Associated stories are horrendous; and yet, the map of suffering and destruction consumes itself with ravenous ferocity. Nothing to do with justice. Misguided conviction plays out another confrontation; another catastrophe; another war crime – such a pity.

    To the poet: Man of darkness on the road to Damascus. A conversion story, where Saul takes on a simple journey that leads to a complex tale of self-discovery. Paul (Saul’s alter ego) emerges from the flash-point a transformed individual. In Aristotle’s theatrical framework (Poetics) Saul’s crisis is the turning-point; the reversal, from which Paul seeks resolution. The equivalence of one man’s story…

     

    Sad Indictment Sad Indictment
    Picture Source:
    http://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-22798391

     

  • Release The Brake

    Release The Brake

    You’d better contemplate your journey now.
    Talk as you would walk with a natural gait.
    Learn to wait, stand your ground, take a bow.
    Be patient, be present … anticipate.
    By all means stride out, by all means leap forth.
    But do take care, know when enough’s enough.
    This is the stuff of immeasurable worth;
    the fortitude you need when things get tough.
    You are where are, for good purpose; there
    not to stagnate, not to stop, you’re there to make
    the most of moments (rehearse and prepare)
    and then, when you’re ready, release the brake.
    . As a general rule, what’s far becomes near.
    . Life, as is our school, renders most things clear.

    © Tim Grace, 18 July 2012

    To the reader: Effectively managing the erratic pace of life takes wisdom. Going with the flow is one technique; perilous when that pace is frantic, stultifying when things grind to a halt. No, we can do better than that. Finding your own natural rhythm is the trick. Live life in a relaxed state of readiness… poised; as in ‘having a composed and self-assured manner.’

    To the poet: Adjusting a suit can be a simple matter… hems up or down. On the other hand the process can be laboured and intensive; costly and expensive. The same can be said of editing a sonnet. Like its predecessor, this sonnet fought tooth and nail not be adjusted. Every line took umbrage at the mere suggestion of change or alteration. In the end we were both exhausted.

     

    Release The Brake Release The Brake
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/8sJz-iEd1PA

     

  • Notographs

    Notographs

    In front of me sit two photographers,
    swapping thoughts on a gallery of shots;
    contemporary, digital philosophers
    sharing the joy of pixilated dots.
    They scroll through images and often pause
    to seek critique from a like-minded peer;
    they relive the moment, wonder its cause;
    they reflect upon a setting and think it queer
    that light through a shutter would strike a pose;
    shift attention to itself and so steal
    the focus of the frame – and so it goes,
    who knows the prism – as would light reveal
    . I watch from a distance – stealing quotes.
    . Adjust my frame of reference – taking notes.

    © Tim Grace, 8 July 2012

    To the reader: I sat alone, absorbing my surroundings; translating what I saw into comprehensible passages of ink… taking notographs. Behind me, two men shared a table and their photographic enthusiasm. Their expert mastery was evident, but so too was the thrill of light’s incidental intrusion. The mischievous play of light is hard to replicate in poetry. Can you over or under expose a word … is that the role of an adjective?

    To the poet: Snapshots capture incidental moments; it’s difficult to elevate interest above a casual glance. An environmental scan doesn’t always return a topic of literary note. Occasionally, the mundane is given gloss; just enough to raise an eyebrow or prick an ear. The jotted-poem, like the snapshot and the pencilled-sketch, has to reflect its momentary inspiration with readiness and brevity; stretch the point and you’ve lost the plot… easy does it.

     

    Notographs
    Notographs
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/f3VjyHQiqdE

     

  • Friends – not lovers

    Friends – not lovers

    Friends, not lovers, protect us from ourselves.
    They can hold us steady, disentangle
    emotional strings, retrieve he who delves
    too deep; ungrip the hand that would strangle
    from life all good reason to continue
    the good fight (for a good cause warranted).
    Such is the good friend, with every sinew,
    a good connection, a well-cemented
    source of truth; a solid anchor of sorts,
    a fixed point of reference, not to be moved
    by whim or fancy (such as love contorts);
    so admired, esteemed, and much approved.
    . Such is the friend who through life endures,
    . promises nothing …. simply reassures.

    © Tim Grace, 23 June 2012

    To the reader: Love, besotted love, is emotionally vulnerable. Through devotion, tender love is unable to detach itself from heartfelt entanglements. The bond of friendship, however, has commitment without the surrender of proximity. Through distance a friend maintains objectivity; sometimes critical in the heat of emotional turmoil. The lover will tend to move towards the fire; the friend one-step back. A lover will sacrifice; a friend will rescue.

    To the poet: The continuity of rhythm and meter delivers flow; but, the principles of design apply to poetry … too much of a good thing detracts from character and diminishes interest. The deliberate disturbance of flow is part of a writer’s craft. Displacement is an effective ploy in attracting attention; but overplayed the strategy loses impact – predictability is the pitfall.

     

    Friends - not lovers
    Friends – not lovers
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/SuUrG4Y29do